


Lullaby

by flecksofpoppy



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Did I really use this title because I think I did, Ficlet, M/M, Reaper Fic, Reapers, The Most Beautiful DEATH in The World
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-21
Updated: 2013-07-21
Packaged: 2017-12-20 21:27:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/892064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flecksofpoppy/pseuds/flecksofpoppy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eric's hands are rougher than they used to be.</p><p>Thank you to <a href="http://andantin0.tumblr.com">andantin0</a> for <a href="http://andantin0.tumblr.com/post/90206174020/yellow-light-my-first-attempt-to-draw-alan">drawing an amazing piece entitled "Yellow Light" inspired by this fic</a>!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lullaby

**Author's Note:**

> So I had this idea about doing a series where one character talks to another in bed while they’re asleep. I suppose this might considered the first in that series… shockingly, it’s Alan/Eric. XD
> 
> Also, a million and a half thanks to [somebodyslight](http://somebodyslight.tumblr.com) for feedback, reading and putting up with my infinite neuroses. <3

It’s warm in the room, the glow of candles sitting on the table next to the bed somehow entrancing.

Eric is snoring soundly regardless of the uncomfortable, foreign bedding, his hand resting against Alan’s knee. Alan simply watches him as the seconds tick past, and the night seems like it will never end.

It’s late – at least half two – but he can’t sleep. He’s been sitting up in bed with the dim lamp lit for at least an hour; every now and again, Eric murmurs the question of whether he feels alright, why he’s still awake.

Alan responds that he is and his intention to go to sleep three times, until finally, he settles on stroking Eric’s hair to prevent him from waking again. It had worked, and now Eric is in the dead of sleep for the first time in what Alan assumes are weeks, even months. When he stirs and frowns faintly, Alan puts his own hand over the top of Eric’s. It settles whatever unpleasant dream he’s experiencing.

One thing about Eric that’s fascinating is how he looks without his glasses. Somehow, his face looks younger; and when he’s asleep, without any expression, he looks like he ought to be right out of the academy.

“You know...” Alan says softly. He lets his voice trail off, waiting to see if Eric will respond. When he doesn’t, Alan decides it’s safe to continue.

“You know,” he repeats, and then his voice goes very soft and quiet, “it was your lips that I first noticed.”

Eric grumbles and rolls onto his stomach, and Alan stares at his bare back. His shoulders flex in a rather tantalizing manner as he curls close, sighing heavily, and Alan finally abandons his sitting position to lie down fully next to Eric.

“They reminded me of petals,” he adds, taking advantage of the fact that he can now run his fingers through Eric’s hair without question, asleep or awake.

It’s a true, candid statement; Alan had noticed Eric’s lips from the moment they met. But not just that they were rather full and smiled easily; more importantly, the kind words had passed through them.

“I wonder what you said to those people you reaped,” Alan muses softly as Eric turns restlessly onto his side now to face Alan, his brow furrowed. Alan smooths his fingers there, and Eric leans eagerly into the touch, as if he’s starving for it as he reaches out to rest his hand on Alan’s waist.

When Eric settles and his face slips back into an expression of relaxed, emotionless slumber, Alan gingerly pulls Eric’s hand up to examine it. He’s careful as he gently opens it, fingers outstretched, to look at the palm; it’s far more callused than when they first met. 

Eric is known for the ease with which he yields his scythe. Only overexertion and constant use would create hands like the ones he has now – rough and hard and damaged. Reapers’ hands are rarely callused, regardless of how much overtime they do. 

It’s a fact of their existence that the heavier the heart, the worse bodily injuries are. Alan’s the ultimate proof, with the Thorns; but occasionally, a cut won’t heal as fast as it should. Everybody has bad days, so it’s never addressed unless it lasts a noticeably long time.

There’s a reason that Eric’s insisted on keeping his gloves on recently, even while at the pub.

But whether or not upper management wants to admit it, sorrow is universally ruinous.

Alan kisses Eric’s palm, his eyes stinging, wishing he could make it soft again, able to hold delicate things. He knows he can’t, though; that Eric is carrying nearly a thousand stolen souls. 

“You must know by now that I can’t be saved,” he says softly against Eric’s palm. “That neither of us can.” 

He releases Eric’s hand and it immediately returns to his waist, callused fingers curling slightly. 

“The second thing I noticed,” he says softly against Eric’s neck, “was how lonely you were.”

Unexpectedly, Eric’s hand moves and fumbles until he finds Alan’s, twining their fingers and smiling sleepily.

“Alan,” he sighs, and then his breathing evens out again.

There’s a bouquet of daises on the window sill of the rented room, probably unwatered for days and drooping. They look wretched, petals shriveling and almost dead.

When Alan leans forward impulsively to press his lips against Eric’s, Eric responds immediately. Their mouths move against each other, and Eric breaks the kiss to draw away and blink at Alan sleepily. He gives a slow, lazy smile as he leans forward again to kiss Alan softly on the mouth.

Eric’s lips feel like new petals, like freshly sprouted flowers; and his callused fingers tighten around Alan’s.

“I’m going to die, you know,” Alan blurts out in a whisper.

Eric breaks their clasped hands to reach up and stroke Alan’s hair.

“Soft,” he murmurs, refusing to address the grave statement. “First thing I noticed about you. Your hair, always so bloody neat and tidy and-“

Eric’s voice catches and he stops speaking abruptly.

“I thought you were completely mad because of your hairstyle,” Alan replies after a moment to break the silence, and Eric gives a hoarse laugh.

Alan reaches up now to brush his fingers over Eric’s braids; almost immediately though, it ends up with his palm against Eric’s cheek.

“Ssh,” he says softly, stroking Eric’s face.

Eric’s tears are quiet, as he always knew they would be.

“Don’t leave me alone,” Eric finally rasps in a hushed, tense whisper.

“Let’s go to sleep,” Alan replies, gathering Eric into his arms.

Eric’s hands are rough; but the rest of his skin is soft and smells so familiar. He’s trembling in Alan’s arms, and Alan lulls him back to sleep with quiet, reassuring words.

When Alan presses one last kiss to Eric’s lips before falling off to sleep as well, he thinks how much they feel like the flower petals he always dreamed. How light and fragile; how delicate.


End file.
